Today is the Tomorrow We Promised Yesterday
by PaolaAdara
Summary: When he sits opposite her, she notices everything that's different in them — where once they were children living in the world of adults, now they are adults painfully losing what they once had. Time is running out for the both of them. Post Destiny. 2009 Anime North Fanfiction Contest Grand Prize winner.


Title: Today is the Tomorrow We Promised Yesterday (1 of 1)

Author: Paola

Disclaimer: _Today is the Tomorrow We Promised Yesterday_ is based on characters and situations that belong to Sunrise, Inc. (and other production affiliates that have the right of ownership). No money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Considerations: Similarities to other stories/events/passages are purely coincidental unless otherwise cited. Beliefs and points of view found in the story do not necessarily reflect those of the author's.

_**Today is the Tomorrow We Promised Yesterday**_

She sips her tea in that quiet manner she wasn't acquainted with before, sips the tea that used to be hot cocoa, from a dainty Lenka tea cup that used to be a carelessly hand-painted mug. She sips it at the pricey coffee shop along the Upper East Side when before she had her hot chocolate in a quaint kitchen at a modest apartment, sips it while three uniformed men stand guard outside the shop when before there was only a young man with green eyes whom she turned to for comfort and protection.

She checks her diamond-rimmed JeanRichard lady watch that used to be an old, worn-out Swatch with plastic straps, sighs a quiet sigh that used to be the exasperated suspiration of a young girl shaking her head at a Zaft pilot, and scans the shop with tired, jaded eyes that used to be brimming with life and enthusiasm. Too much time has passed, too many chances not taken, too many encounters avoided, but now she finds herself waiting for the man she'd parted ways with, waiting for him because he'd called and planned to fly to Orb from the PLANTs, and she'd found herself unable to say no because, in all honestly, she misses him, misses him so badly that the ache in her chest precluded her from denying them a meeting.

Then the chimes by the door awake from their slumber as the ancient wood opens and admits the man who used to be the boy she kissed in space, fought a war with, and with him the ghost of complacency they used to indulge in when everyone wasn't looking, when everyone was too busy to notice two teenagers who were trying to live lives changed forever by the angry flashes, the disturbing dreams, the confused shouts and cries of war. She almost chokes on the emotions the memories are dredging up, and offers a small smile to hide the wince she feels tightening around her eyes.

He smiles in return as he walks towards her table, smiles the smile that used to be of flirtatious uncertainty, of confidence in some things and hard-edged in others. When he sits opposite her, she notices everything that's different in them — where once they were children living in the world of adults, now they are adults painfully losing what they once had, and the only things that remain are how he still wears his clothes sharply no matter how casual they are and how she has never traded her pants for skirts, although she's exchanged her slacks for comfortable worn-out jeans, along with the responsibility to many because now she has accepted that she has to step down.

He orders a cup of coffee that used to be a mug of hot cocoa he shared with her and doesn't order the plate of cake that they used to finish not ten minutes after the waiter brought it to their table. He turns to her and he speaks without beating around the bush, straight as always, and it's almost comforting even though the weight of his question is a heavy punishment that lingers in the forefront of her mind.

"How long?"

She surprises herself when there's no bitterness rising in her throat upon hearing his inquiry. Shrugging, she replies, "Half a year, they say. Eight months if things change for the better. I don't think it matters." _It'll end the same way anyway_, is what remains unsaid.

And that's the end of that conversation. They shift to other topics, what each is doing now, how everybody is, the weather, the Olympics, chili sauce or yogurt for shrimp kebobs, politics, and they talk with the ease of being acquainted for a long time.

When his coffee is finished and her tea is cold, she stands up, brushing imaginary lint off her jeans and routinely fixing the lapels of her crimson jacket before she offers him her hand, "Humor me, Athrun."

He takes her hand and leads them both out of the coffee shop, and it only takes a shake of her head for her bodyguards to leave them be and only the reassuring warmth of his hand around hers to overcome the undercurrent of whispers that follows them. And then they are cruising down the highway, loud music blaring from the car speakers and bleeding into the passing scenery, imitating a life they never lived, imitating the carefree insouciance of teenagers because the two of them were always a step ahead, always knew more than they should, always, _always_ more aware than they should have been during those ages. But the farce is lacking at its best for the two of them remain seated, remain buckled safely, remain aware that they've gone past this route before with as much success as they are doing it now, realizing that they are both _past this_.

She turns down the volume, the earlier harsh notes leaving nothing but a faint imprint in the air as he accelerates down the road and heads to a destination they have wordlessly marked on the map.

* * *

The washed-out white of the chapel is almost a strong contrast to the greenery surrounding it, to the brown decay of leaves that litter the grounds, to the setting sun in the horizon, and to the past she shares with the man behind the wheel. Her eyes remain fixed on the ramshackle steeple that somehow still stands proudly, and only when the car engine dies and he steps out of the vehicle does she snap out of it. He waits for her at the barred entrance, the decaying wood that wards off visitors not posing a challenge as he removes it and places it aside.

They both stand there by the opened double doors, peering inside as the light filtering through barred and broken windows illuminate small patches on the dusty floor, making the disturbed dust particles visible as they float about the air. She sneezes instantly the moment she steps foot inside, and he takes her hand once again as they traverse the wooden aisle towards the altar, every creak a witness to each measure of sense being thrown out the window, and when they stop before the imposing wooden cross, she removes the silver chain around her neck and hands him the ruby ring he gave her a long time ago.

A flicker of emotion flits across his face as he takes it, but it's gone in a second. He looks at her mutely, capturing her hand and slipping the ring on her ring finger — where before he was hesitant, now he performs the same action without that kind of incertitude; where once she couldn't look him in the eyes without blushing, now she gazes at him with only a tinge of downplayed curiosity; where once he kissed her almost indecisively, now he seals his lips across hers with a resolute sweep, empty of frivolous intentions, almost deceptively calculative in his approach.

She lets him linger for a heartbeat, then she smiles congenially when he breaks off, ignoring the painful flutter in her heart as she knows there's just too much between them to ever fully regain what once was young love and blind passion.

As they stand inside the derelict chapel, she almost winces at the friendly atmosphere that seems to pervade the air, and she clamps down on the urge to run away because where once they were in a relationship, now they still are but merely a platonic relationship that doesn't permit kisses and touches that are consuming in their own right.

He tugs at her hand, and she tells him to start the car while she takes a look around for a while. She watches as he walks towards the exit, loping grace of a man comfortable in his skin. She ponders the twisted symbolism of what they've just done, hearing in her head _do you take this man…_ and answering in a breathless whisper, "I do." But he doesn't hear her, doesn't hear the vow in her head, and she almost regrets asking him to "humor her." Almost, before she quashes the thought and thinks of the reason she has done so.

Six months. Six months to be selfish. She hopes he understands, and when he re-appears by the entrance and calls her, he smiles that familiar smile and she wishes that that means he does.

* * *

That night, she scrubs her skin raw, almost as though she's washing all the bad memories from her person and all the severe thoughts that run through her head every time she remembers her condition, the oppressive heat of the water a welcome sting against her skin.

When she almost crumbles to the floor at the weight of her problem, the door she has kept unlocked opens, and he joins her in the shower, catching her before she falls into the abyss that the night always throws her into, kissing away the tears that are running a smooth course down her cheeks. He turns the shower knobs, and the abusive heat turns into a comforting spray, and still he holds her close, running fingers down her arms, like a salve to the injuries she brought upon herself.

"I don't…I-I-I…not yet… I don't…" she can't finish her sentence because it's too depressing to think about it.

"Shh… I'm here. I'm here."

She clings to him like a lifeline, and he feels solid in her arms, something that anchors her down and keeps her sane. She ignores the compunction deep in her gut, justifying her neglect by telling herself that he _has_ let himself be tied down. She buries her head in his neck, kissing the skin there, and the sound of water almost drowns her next words, "We're not friends, are we? Tell me we're not friends, Athrun."

He turns off the shower and maneuvers around to retrieve a white fluffy towel to dry the both of them, the color a great contrast to the emotions that are encasing them. "We're not," he re-assures her. "We're you and me." He picks her up and carries her over to the bed, laying her on the soft white sheets, but when she doesn't let go, he joins her on the bed.

"I don't like the white." Where once she loved the color for it reminded her of the peace after the two wars, now she hates it for representing everything that could be but would never be.

"Me neither," he replies, voice quiet as he hovers over her.

She looks up at him, bringing her fingers to run through the wet strands of his hair, and she realizes that they really can never be friends, at least...not at night…not when her thoughts are all too consuming and she needs him to keep her grounded.

He dips his head and captures her lips in a soul-searing kiss, pouring his every assurance to her every question, and she responds with all she has for the act appeases her demons. His hands map out her skin, branding it with scorching touches that leave her gasping and panting. The night is young, and he proceeds to love her slowly and completely all throughout the night, giving and taking and making her forget, making her live, allowing her to reach something she has never reached before.

The years apart, the times lost, everything seems irrelevant, like a fading memory, as he claims her again and again, as she gives herself to him because there's nothing else for her to do but that. Every thrust, every kiss, every moan that is answered by a satisfied gasp and a groan, is a reassurance that she is alive, that she isn't fading away…at least not yet.

Her hands touch every patch of skin she can reach, running her nails down his back, feeling corded muscles react to her touch, and the green of his eyes never leaves the amber of hers, never breaks her gaze even as he brings both of them to the apex of their passion, each other's names rolling off tongues that later on join in a dance of feelings and heat.

When he spoons her moments later, she is cocooned in a warmth that lulls her to sleep, his heartbeat a constant lullaby that eases her nightmares.

It's the perfect consummation of a make-believe marriage.

* * *

Days pass by in different places as he takes her travelling, and not once does she let herself regret stepping down her throne. A week they'll spend in Anatolia, another in Japan. A passing ten hours in Hong Kong and an overnight stay in The Philippines. Three days in New Zealand, four in Australia, and a week in Spain. Two days in France, another two in Sweden, and a week in Scandinavia. Then a week up in the PLANTs, jumping from one city to another even before a day is over. There is no solid destination, no exact plan, always just two tickets from one country to another and a modest duffle bag for a few clothes. Sometimes they stay at inns, sometimes in hotels, and other times inside a rented car as they drive around. Once, twice, thrice, they have had to take a hospital visit, but she never stays confined in one for long, a new plane ticket always burning a hole in her pocket that she can't possibly miss a flight, and for the first time in her life, she doesn't think about how she's wiping her bank account clean.

He doesn't say anything.

While their mornings are spent lounging in their room, afternoons touring whichever place they find themselves in, the nights are always spent tangled with each other, lost in overwhelming sensations, in kisses and other tactile feelings that make her forget the inevitability of losing. Sometimes they do it slow and steady, sweet and unhurried, other times are hot and fast, demanding and clumsy, but always, _always_ fulfilling.

They don't notice much how time flies, and the only testament to the passage of days is the growing number of medicine she has to take, of pills she gulps one after another throughout the day, but not once does he say anything about it, and she's thankful.

The day she gets prescribed another medicine, she's restless the entire afternoon, and by nightfall, her pent up frustrations are released in an uncontrolled frenzy of sex and sweat. She undresses him, pushes him down the bed, straddles him, and kisses him wildly, her nails tracing red paths down his chest, his stomach, and she dismisses the remorse she feels at knowing she'll be leaving angry welts on his skin. But she doesn't stop her attack, and she rides him to completion.

All that time he doesn't complain, lets her have her way, guides her when she falters, and when she's finally spent and tired, he spoons her like he usually does, feathering her nape with butterfly kisses and caresses her wrist with the pad of his thumb until she falls asleep.

* * *

She's growing weaker by the day, she knows — she's already past her six months, which is a miracle in itself. She feels the tired tug of weariness settle in her bones, and hospital visits are starting to become more frequent, confinements starting to last longer than five days. She knows it's time to go back, it's time to say goodbye to this kind of life, one of merriment and abandonment, of careless indulging. Where once she would thrash about and shout when having to put a stop to her adventures, now she only quietly agrees when he finally suggests that they return to Orb.

On their first night back, she wakes up from a frightening dream, and she almost cries when she feels her lungs filling with air, cries in relief at the fact that she's still breathing. But then fear closes in on her, and a heartbreaking sob escapes her throat. He is immediately there, comforting her, filling in the dark places with his presence so they won't trap her.

"Shh… It's only a dream. I'm here. I'm here." He gathers her in his arms and rocks her back and forth in smooth, calming motions.

But the tears won't stop. "Not yet, Athrun. I'm…I'm not ready. I don't…I don't want to go yet…not yet…"

He doesn't have an answer to that so he lifts her chin and kisses her full on the lips instead, that slow, loving kiss that says he won't leave her. Fueled by fear, she responds, clinging to him desperately, as though if she lets go, she would drown.

He moves to her neck, nibbling and sucking, then down to her collarbone where he leaves his mark. His hand skims down her clothed body, finding the hem of her nightshirt before he sets out to divest her of her clothing, his other hand supporting her.

Her hands work their way to unbutton his shirt, popping each button and letting her fingers caress the skin beneath before moving on to the next, and when he lays them both down, she lets her fingers caress his face, almost as if she's imprinting his every feature in her mind, his aquiline nose, his sharp cheekbones, the curve of his brow, the contour of his chin, the set of his lips. And he kisses her fingers before he takes them and entwines them with his.

As the moonbeam filters through the window, she lets him love her slowly, passionately, excruciatingly sweetly. She arches her back when he teases a puckered bud with his mouth, his free hand going down her side, stroking her thigh before he touches her most sensitive spot, evoking a moan from deep inside her throat. He is unrelenting in his pursuit of bringing her to the edge, and when he enters her, she almost comes right there and then. But he whispers in her ear to hold out for him, to reach the crest with him, and she whimpers when he begins to move, touching all the right spots that send her mewling. Liquid fire travels up her spine as he thrusts into her, a slow, steady pace that increases in tempo as they near their climax, and when she peaks, his name passes her lips in almost an extolling whisper, triggering his own release.

That's the last time he makes love to her for the next days, the next weeks, she spends confined in the hospital.

* * *

Her eyes are drawn to the IV drop that spells out her future, and her concentration is only broken when he enters the room.

"I hate the white," she says, and it's ironic that her room is painted in white, and her sheets and pillow covers are of the same color. Her blanket, on the other hand, is bright red, a request she's made.

"I hate it, too," he replies, shuffling over and briefly kissing her chapped lips. He sits on the armchair by her bed and takes her hand, massaging her knuckles lightly.

"I'm tired, Athrun," she says in a resigned voice that used to be loud and optimistic. Where once she would never admit her exhaustion, now it passes readily through her lips.

She lifts the hand that he isn't holding and eyes the ring that sits on her ring finger before she lets her gaze slide over to him. "I've always wondered why you agreed to this. I think it'd be fine with me if you said we'd just be friends."

It takes a while before he answers. "We can't be friends. We're you and me, and this is how you and me work."

Another heartbeat of silence fills the room before she speaks again, "Did you ever love me, Athrun?"

"No," he easily replies, kissing her hand. "I did more than that. I still do."

There are no tears that escape her eyes, but she does feel the sting behind her eyelids as she watches him give a kiss on her wrist. "You know I do, too, don't you?"

"Yes."

She inhales a deep breath, a smile forming on her mouth, and she feels him drop a kiss on her brow then on her lips as she closes her eyes. "I'll rest now. I'm really tired." Where before she would try not to sleep to live every second the way she wanted to, now she drifts in and out of consciousness.

Where once he brought her a change of clothes because she was ready to be discharged, now he comes to her room with nothing but a prayer because the doctors have said that her stay may be permanent.

Where once she squeezed back when he held her hand, now her hand is slack in his.

Where once he would hear the laughter in her voice when he whispered to her, now he is only met with silence as he leans down, seals his lips over hers for the last time, and whispers, "I love you, Cagalli."

Where once it calmed him to hear her even intake of breath, now it breaks his heart again and again to only hear the static beep of the machine that displays nothing but a thin, red line, flat and unresponsive.

_-fin-_

* * *

About the lack of warning regarding character death, let it be known that I never put warnings about plot progress. Constructive criticisms, or otherwise, are always welcome (and much appreciated).

This is written for Ladymadchan (Mademoiselle, as her FFN ID goes). The original request is for Athrun and Cagalli to have taken separate paths but Cagalli being saddled with an incurable disease brings them back together.

I don't usually take requests for GS/GSD, but if you send me one, I'll think it over and get back to you with my decision.

**Important:** If anyone does make a request, please log in so I can reply or leave an e-mail add (or a link) I can use to contact you. Requests will probably take a long time to be fulfilled, and that's even only if I agree to write them. Thanks.


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